When a Rogue Falls Read online

  Liam threw himself into work for the next three days. The evening with Bathsheba—or lesson one, as he kept calling it in his mind—had been more affecting than expected, and he didn’t want to drive himself mad from dwelling on it. He had not expected her to be so passionate, or so willing. But then he would ask himself what he had expected, and there was no answer. Why wouldn’t she be willing, when she proposed the whole exercise? Why shouldn’t she be passionate, given that she knew passion was lacking in her own life, but still craved it?

  But when Friday morning dawned, he washed and dressed with more care than usual and had his valet trim his hair. At the first meeting, he had wanted to learn Bathsheba—what pleased her, what aroused her, how she reacted to him. Tonight he wanted her to learn him. It had sounded like a good plan when he came up with it, but now the thought of Bathsheba stripping him, touching him, putting her mouth on him . . . It was enough to make him lose his line of thought entirely and send two reporters out on crossed assignments.

  When he closed the office, he headed for Wharton’s Bank, where his accounts were. Unfortunately it was also where Angus was a partner, although Liam was careful never to do business directly with his brother. He saw Niall Wharton instead, handing over a list of the transfers and payments he needed made. Even though Niall was a partner as well—son of the founder, in fact—he and Angus didn’t get on that well. It was enough to assure Liam than Niall would keep his mouth closed around Angus.

  But today Angus must have been idle, because as soon as Liam stepped out of Niall’s office, his brother was there. “Come to hide from all the ladies wanting to seduce you?” he asked with a smirk.

  Liam paused. “Why on earth would I hide from them, rather than from you?”

  Angus scowled. “Admit it, man. No such thing has ever happened to you. I’ve queried every man I know, and not a one has ever had a woman throw up her skirts for him—absent a marriage proposal, that is.”

  “That,” said Liam gravely, “is a reflection of what a sorry lot of mates you have, Angus.”

  “If you’re going to make up rubbish, at least make up a description.” Angus followed him through the bank, like a dog after a bone. “It cannot be that lovely blonde you met here from time to time.”

  “You know it’s not.” Liam smirked at the mention of Madeline Wilde. “She’s married another man, and I assure you, I was never more than a business partner to her.” Although one might have said the same of Bathsheba, until a few days ago.

  That seemed to calm Angus. “Of course not! She’s a beauty, that one, but a wee bit cold. Although, it surely couldn’t have been business alone on your mind, all those times you met her here . . .”

  “It was,” returned Liam evenly. “Her husband owned part of my newspaper. When he died, it became hers. I meet her to disclose information about her share of the Intelligencer.” And also to collect the gossip column she wrote for him, under strictest secrecy. Liam didn’t know if that arrangement would endure much longer, as Madeline had recently married Douglas Bennet, heir to a wealthy baronet and one of the most notorious, though eligible, men in London. Liam had never tried to woo Madeline—her first husband had been more of a brother to him than Angus, so it would have been like seducing his sister-in-law—but he was not surprised at all that a rakehell like Bennet would set his sights on her. He was surprised that Madeline had fallen for Bennet, but one never could tell with women when it came to love. Even Bathsheba might be susceptible to it, if the right man were to take aim at her.

  Angus harrumphed. “You’re a bloody liar. You never thought of it: ha! Now you claim women all over London are offering you a tumble, but you can’t even say what they look like. Bloody liar,” he repeated for good measure.

  Liam stopped and made a show of glancing around, as if for privacy. “Hair like silk,” he said, so quietly Angus had to lean closer. “Long and wavy, and when she’s wearing nothing else . . .” He inhaled meaningfully. “Eyes warm and inviting. Skin as soft as a peach. And a mouth that would make your brain cease working, when you imagine it touching yours.”

  Angus was barely breathing. “No . . .”

  Liam smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Angus.” He walked out, reveling at leaving his older brother speechless. There was no good reason for Angus to be so interested in Liam’s love affairs; Angus had a fiancée, a perfectly respectable woman called Miss Lachlan whose mother was one of Mrs. MacGregor’s dear friends. Unfortunately Miss Lachlan’s father had died two weeks before their planned wedding this past spring, so the marriage had been postponed until after her mourning was finished. Angus must be feeling ill-natured because he ought to have had his own woman to bed by now, but didn’t. The Lachlans were rather pious people and Miss Lachlan wanted to observe a full year for her father.

  Which was a terrible pity for poor Angus, but not Liam’s problem. He hailed a hackney and gave the direction of his little house in the village of St. John’s Wood. He’d bought it for privacy, and because it was more affordable to live so far from town. It was also something of a secret; all his correspondence went to the Intelligencer offices or to Wharton’s Bank, and he lived quietly, even reclusively, avoiding the few neighbors. Tonight that seemed like a brilliant decision.

  He’d left orders that morning with his housekeeper, and arrived home to find everything ready. A cold plate of dinner was waiting under a cloth in the dining room, and the servants had taken their night out. He ate and then strolled through the house, viewing it critically. The sofa in the parlor had proved adequate, but he wanted to keep Bathsheba off guard. He thought of what he had in mind for her second lesson and realized he was staring at the long, wide chaise in his small library. It was extremely comfortable for reading, with his feet propped up and a pillow behind his back. He wouldn’t be reading tonight . . . but this would suit him perfectly. Smiling, he went to fetch the wine.

  Chapter 6

  Friday threw Bathsheba into a crisis unlike any she had ever suffered before: one of fashion.

  For three days she had successfully put her “lessons” from her mind. Despite the lack of notes, her writing had been almost frantically inspired this week. She’d written close to fifty pages of her next tale, and they were rather high quality pages if she did say so herself. Far from growing dull or routine, her heroine’s encounter felt daring and charged. Never had writing been so easy or so exhilarating. She would have to consider taking a lover more often, as it appeared to have refreshed her entire creative spirit.

  But on Friday she had to confront one point that had nagged at her those three days. She did not have an attractive dress. Why this mattered, she wasn’t sure, but Liam’s derision of her brown velvet began to assume unreasonable importance in her mind. It didn’t matter if he found her attractive or well-dressed, she tried to tell herself. She’d only take off the dress soon after she arrived, and it could offend no one lying on a chair. But she still found herself scowling into her wardrobe, irrationally distressed that all her clothes were practical and plain.

  “Are you going out again?” asked Mary, hovering in the doorway.

  “Yes, but I don’t know what to wear.” She touched a rust-colored dress, then a dark blue. They were both new, bought to replace dresses ruined by ink while they were printing Fifty Ways to Sin in the cellar, but suddenly Bathsheba thought them both old and tired. Or perhaps she was the problem, too plain and dull to look attractive in anything. She sighed. This should not matter to her. Liam knew perfectly well that she was plain and unfashionable when he agreed to this.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Oh—a dinner party,” she said, blushing at the lie. “But don’t tell Mr. Crawford,” she added quickly. “It’s a philosophical society and my brother doesn’t hold with such things.” Fortunately Danny was accustomed to spending Friday evenings at the local pub, so she wouldn’t have to lie to him directly.

  “Then you want to look lovely.” Mary opened the wardrobe doors wider and p
ulled out a dress. “This one is handsome.”

  Bathsheba laughed in surprise. “It’s several years old!” It had once been her favorite, but now was hopelessly out of fashion.

  Mary shook out the sage green skirt, spreading it out for examination. “It’s still in fine condition, and it suits you, ma’am.” She held it up. “It looks like it will fit.”

  Dubiously, Bathsheba considered it. “You think so?” It was a simple round gown, at least ten years old. She remembered wearing it before her parents’ deaths, when she’d been young and hopeful. Surely such a gown would look ridiculous on a woman of her age. Aside from some white embroidery around the sleeves and bodice, it was unadorned.

  “We’ll add a ribbon for a sash. With a necklace, you’ll be quite lovely, ma’am.” Mary’s round face shone eagerly, and Bathsheba found herself agreeing to try it.

  Even after discovering it still fit—one benefit to being poor was that she hadn’t put on much weight—and even after Mary produced a long black ribbon sash that lent a sophisticated air to the ensemble, Bathsheba fidgeted. Mary rolled her hair into a simple chignon and pinned it at the nape of her neck, softer than her usual scraped-back style. Even to Bathsheba’s critical eyes, she looked better than usual, but part of her recoiled from it. This wasn’t a romantic assignation with Liam, it was a business meeting.

  During which she expected to end up naked and shuddering in sensual release.

  This time the ride in the carriage seemed shorter than before. When she stepped down, her hands were just as shaky as the first time, and the fact that Liam stood in the doorway waiting, just as before, made her somehow feel gauche and shy.

  Things improved when she took off her cloak. The expression on his face said she’d been right to trust Mary. “Much better,” he said with approval.

  “It’s old,” she said for no reason.

  “But still more appealing than the brown. Come.” He led the way to another room, a library where a fire burned against the chill of the evening and two glasses of wine stood on the table. This time he closed the door. “No draughts,” he said with a slight smile, and Bathsheba flushed scarlet.

  “Any regrets?” He handed her a glass of the wine, and she took a nervous sip. “I am open to any critique, now that you’ve had a few days to reflect upon lesson one.”

  “No. No regrets.” She twisted the glass in her hands. “You?”

  He laughed. “None at all.”

  That buoyed her courage a little. “Then shall we begin?”

  “Drink some wine,” he said with amusement. “I think you’ll be glad later.”

  What did that mean? Her fevered imagination bolted like a startled horse, rampaging through various erotic visions. Her knees started to quake, and her heart banged inside her chest, and she gulped down some wine.

  “Is this your house?” she asked, trying to distract herself from anticipation of what lay ahead.

  Liam hesitated. “It is.”

  “It’s quite handsome,” she said truthfully. “And so pleasantly removed from London.”

  “That was crucial.” A wry smile crossed his face as he glanced around the room. “It’s not widely known, so it’s quite private.”

  Bathsheba nodded, drinking again. She understood what he was saying, both assuring her of discretion and urging her to keep it. “Good.” Her glass was almost empty. “Should I take off my dress now?”

  His gaze slithered over her. “Take it off or leave it on, as you wish.”

  “Oh?” She almost choked on the last mouthful of wine. “We won’t—? That is, aren’t you—?”

  He took the glass out of her limp fingers. “Tonight you’re going to undress me. If you also wish to disrobe . . .” He flashed his lazy smile. “I will not object.”

  Oh dear Lord. The thought of Liam, naked, sent her pulse leaping so hard, she thought she might faint. “That is not what I asked for,” she blurted out.

  “Seduction goes both ways,” he countered. “At least, it should.” He folded back one shirt cuff and undid it, then undid the other one. He dropped the studs on the mantel. “Or do you find it unappealing?”

  No. She found the idea dangerously, lusciously appealing, and she feared the actual experience of it would leave her a lunatic, mad with lust for him. “Don’t be silly,” she said brusquely. “You’re the bloody expert, I’ll follow your recommendation.”

  He was still smiling, the rotter. Bathsheba vowed to take that smile off his face. “Very well. Undress me—but leisurely. As you imagine a woman would undress her lover.”

  If I could make myself your lover, I would, she thought. “And I keep all my clothes on?”

  “As many as you wish,” he agreed.

  She reflected a moment. “Are there any benefits to disrobing?”

  His eyes gleamed. “By all means, bare anything you wish to offer up for my enjoyment.”

  The thought of lesson one being repeated while he was as naked as she was blazed across her mind. His hands on her bare flesh felt incredible; she was dying to feel his skin. “Very well,” she said, and untied her sash. She removed her dress and petticoat, but paused after laying them aside. “That’s enough for now,” she announced, then cringed.

  He only smiled at her nerves. “Now my clothes,” he prompted. He wore a banyan over trousers and shirt, no jacket or waistcoat or even boots; he wore slippers on his bare feet. Bathsheba pushed the banyan down his shoulders, then tugged at his cravat.

  “Gently,” he murmured. “And try not to look so grim as you do it.”

  Her hands paused. “I’ve never done this before,” she said tartly. “Perhaps you should describe the process before I attempt it.”

  “Imagine yourself Lady Constance,” he said after a moment. “Finally alone with the man you desire. You’re anxious to strip him to your gaze, eager to marvel at his body—but patient enough to savor each moment of the unwrapping. You want your lover to take his time with your pleasure; take your time with his. Explore at will.”

  Explore. He was giving her carte blanche with his body. A rapid pulse of excitement throbbed through her, in her belly and lower. She untied his cravat with steady hands, although she avoided his gaze. It was strange enough to be undressing him without gazing into his eyes the whole while. That felt too lover-like, too intimate. They were not lovers, this was not true intimacy, and she didn’t want to take one step down the path toward letting herself think it was.

  The shirt buttons came loose with a flick of her fingers; she gathered the fabric at his waist and pushed upward until his bare abdomen was beneath her hands.

  And oh—she almost forgot herself. Bathsheba pushed the shirt up and up, over his head until he pulled out his arms and she let it drop to the floor. He was solid and well-muscled, with a light mat of dark hair covering his upper chest and narrowing down his stomach. Bathsheba had seen naked statues in museums, and she had cared for her brother in his illness. Liam left them all in the shade and took her breath away.

  “Explore,” he reminded her, and without thinking she plowed her fingers through the hair on his chest. It was soft but crisp, not thick but evenly spread, and she stepped closer, fascinated by the texture.

  “May I put my mouth on you?”

  His stomach flinched. “Yes.” Bathsheba leaned forward and touched her tongue to his small, flat nipple. Liam’s abdomen flexed again, but he didn’t protest. She gave a gentle pull with her teeth, then sucked it between her lips as he had done to her. The flesh grew ripe and hard against her tongue, and when she drew back, she noticed his other nipple was hard as well, standing out from the sprinkling of dark hair. She stroked her thumb over it, then pinched it lightly.

  “Do you like that?” She glanced up at him.

  His gray eyes were hooded. “Can’t you tell?”

  She blushed. “I didn’t know . . .”

  “That it would be the same for a man as for a woman?” His knowing little smile was back. “It is.”

  Annoyed, she
pressed her lips to his skin, pulling the hard little nub tight against her teeth. His breath hissed, and when she peeked at his face, his eyes had grown dark and focused on her. Her hands wandered freely, exploring the firmness of his muscles, marveling at how warm he was, how large, how male. Boldly she undid the buttons on his trousers, and pushed the fabric down. Without a word he kicked off his slippers and stepped out of the garment, and let her strip down his drawers.

  For the rest of her days, Bathsheba would remember the moment. Tall, dark, unspeakably handsome, he stood before her completely unabashed by his nudity or rampant arousal. His arms flexed slightly as she stared, gorging her eyes on the sight. His hair fell around his face, lending him a rather savage air as he gazed at her.

  “May I?” Her question came out husky with desire. She gestured toward his erection, jutting thick and long from his groin.

  “As you wish,” he said in a deep growl, and she felt a surge of elation at the hunger in his voice.

  She ran her fingers down his stomach, feeling a small thrill at the way it contracted, and into the thatch of dark hair. His body was so much harder than hers, everywhere. She explored the lean lines of his hips, and wrapped her hands around his bottom, remembering how he had handled her body so boldly and possessively. But she didn’t touch his erection; she was trying to tease him as he had teased her. Every covert glance she stole at his face, though, revealed nothing about her success. His expression was dark and fixed as he watched her with scorching intensity. Finally she gave in and stroked her palm down the length of his member.

  His chest expanded. At last—a reaction. She did it again, then circled him with both hands at once. So smooth, so vital. She could almost see the blood throbbing beneath the delicate skin. She had touched a man before, but never so brazenly, never so deliberately.

  Perhaps this was what he had felt last time, when he seemed to be bent on torturing her by touching her slowly and lightly when she wanted more. Feeling a little drunk, she went down on her knees and touched her tongue to him.